


A Cheesecake's Fictober

by AuditoryCheesecake



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, Inktober, M/M, Some angst, and some post-canon stuff, but mostly canon, fluff mostly, like 1 soulmate au wedged in there, mostly canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 18:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12612532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/pseuds/AuditoryCheesecake
Summary: Taking inspiration from the Inktober prompt list, here's 31 100-word drabbles about the Inquisition crew!Can also be foundon tumblr!





	1. Swift: Dorian, Running

His lungs are burning. The road curves up another sloping hill– idyllic any other day, now simply torture on his calves. His boots are too thin, the leather too fine, the seams already ripping as he runs.

He recalls, absurdly, racing to meet his father’s carriage at the gate. At ten, crossing the yard had taken half an age.

Now he scrabbles up a hill that has no business being this steep, with nothing but the clothes on his back and the staff in his hand. He doesn’t pause for breath. He has to reach the Inquisition before Alexius does.


	2. Division: Krem And Dorian, Arguing

“How dare you, ser.” A hand waves angrily. A mug of ale almost tips. “How dare you suggest that– you– you impugn the very honor of our homeland– you are a discredit to your profession, ser, a slop-faced miscreant, ill-tongued excuse for a mercenary. You have no right– none– to throw about such baseless, libelous, indecent claims.”

The Iron Bull puts a calming hand on his shoulder and is rebuffed. Krem smirks and drops his heels onto the table, crossing one over the other.

“Sunblonde Vint is draolisk piss in a fancy bottle, Altus. Nothing you say can change that.”


	3. Poison: Hissrad, In The Fog

He holds his breath when the fog rolls in– habit. Death is inside it, razor edges hidden. The fog itself is not death, not really, but there’s something suffocating in it. His heart pounds, his palms sweat. The fog means death.

And yet it’s somehow easier to face that death than the sideways silvery poison offered with a barely-wrong smile. It’s not personal. Were he a fish merchant and not himself, he’d take that chance as well. Far easier to pass death along like a gift than court it with denial. There is no loyalty here, only survival, and fog.


	4. Cole, In The Caves Under Crestwood

“They died here.”

He kneels on the ground, stares at the mud. His finger rubs shallow trenches in the grit. Lungs tight and hot, the pressure is overwhelming.

“It flooded too fast, they couldn’t get out.”

A respite: a fox kills a rabbit outside the Crestwood’s gates, above. Cadash wants to touch his shoulder, a comfort.

The water is in his nose again. It fills his throat like iron, pressing on his chest. They were alone, abandoned. The Blight– her father was so sick– it was almost better to go this way– if he’d only– the water!– he can’t breathe–


	5. Long: Corypheus, Gloating

Ages came and went, empires rose high, shining– and fell to pathetic ruin. His people, his glorious homeland, brought low by narrow, selfish, short-sighted ambition.

Calperina, clever girl, has told him of what passes for power among the rats that squabble where he once ruled.

He built stairs leading ever upwards, and these feckless children tumbled down again, robes bloodied, no glory to show for it.

He entered the Black City. He saw the empty Throne.

They know nothing, these shadows of magisters, these children scrambling in the dark. But they will learn. It won’t be so very long now.


	6. Sword: Cassandra, And A Gift

Cassandra is not unfamiliar with gifts. She’s been given dresses, and hairpins, and books of poetry. She’s been given money and favors and jewels with offers of marriage attached.

A sword. That’s new.

The Divine smiles over her, as she turns it in the light. The blade is silverite, alloyed with honest steel. Leather wraps the hilt, butter-soft and molding to her grip already. In weeks it will fit in her hand like nothing else.

“Do you like it?” The Divine asks, and she bows, embarrassed. “Surely it is not thanks enough for your deeds, but it is a start.”


	7. Shy: Dorian And Bull, Waking Up

Far better to hide one’s face in the pillow than face the sunshine, slanting over three quilts and a pair of horns and a bed not at all one’s own.

Far better to ignore the warmth of his hand, ignore the– oh, fuck it.

He’s smiling, just a little.

“Sun’s up.”

Mask tension with a stretch. Release it into his smile. “I tried to go. I couldn’t find my socks.”

Fingers wrap around a foot, curled in the shape of a joke. “You staying?”

Hair disastrous, khol ruined, heartbeat too fast. All par for the course. “If you don’t mind.”


	8. Crooked: Varric And Bull, Chatting

“So, Varric. How’d you you fuck up your face, anyway?”

“Come again, Tiny?”

“How’d your nose get all, y’know. Wonky?”

“Fell down a mine shaft. That’s why I stay topside now.”

“Oh, come on. If you’re going to make up a story, you should at least make it badass.”

“Nah. It’s gotta be funny. I walked into a Templar’s codpiece.”

“You fought a dragon and it punched you in the face!”

“I Pissed off the madam at the poshest brothel in Kirkwall.”

“Got too enthusiastic making out with your crossbow.”

“Killed the Seeker’s favorite character.”

“That’s a good one. Ouch.”


	9. Screech: Harding, Sensing A Plot Afoot

The sun sets between the leafy branches, casting a soft golden glow over the Emerald Graves. It’s a beautiful place, lush and green. Peaceful, now.

Even the Inquisitor’s party haven’t caused as much trouble as usual.

Harding will gladly take what mercies the Maker gives her. She hums along with the song Sera’s whistling as she patches a hole in her trousers.

Wait. Sera’s whistling.

Harding drops her needle and thread, casting about for the imminent chaos. Is there something in the stew? Are the tents alright? What has Sera done?

And then Solas opens his bedroll. And then….

Lizards.


	10. Gigantic: Krem, Knowing Something The Chief Doesn't

It’s obvious. It’s clear to anyone with two eyes– he’d say one eye, but that would mean including the Chief in “people who get it”, and for once, the Chief does not.

It’s there in the way Pavus leans out of Sera’s window to ask when they’ll be done hitting each other with sticks. It’s there in the way the Chief stops boasting about scorched curtains and starts talking about incorporating more mages into their unit.

It’s as clear as the scars on the skin over the Chief’s big, stupid heart, and Krem’s still not sure if it’s a problem.


	11. Run: Sera And Adaar, Pulling Pranks

She’s too deep in it now. When Solas spots them, Inky grabs her hand and whispers “run!”

Sera does. She runs like every guard in Denerim is after her, laughing like she’ll never stop. Inky darts around a corner and into a dark room, pulling Sera close against her.

“I think we lost him,” she says.

“Don’t think he followed us,” Sera whispers back. She’s so big up close, big gray arms tight around her, big green eyes and big smile… Sera wants to kiss her.

“Sera,” Inky says. “Thanks for this.”

“‘Course.” She is in way, way too deep.


	12. Shattered: Sera, Bull, Dorian, And Wasps

When the Bull breaks down the door, the bandits scatter like rats. Sera cackles next to Dorian, arrows humming through the air like wasps. Or– those actually are wasps, never mind. Dorian strengthens his barriers around the Bull. He’s told her a hundred times, the Bull’s allergic.

She shakes another jar furiously, and lets fly.

It catches a bandit square in the face, and Sera whoops as the glass smashes.

“That’s eight for me!” she shouts.

The Bull raises his ax in acknowledgement, his other hand wrapped around the throat of an unfortunate mage.

And they call Dorian’s tactics creepy.


	13. Teeming: Varric, Feeling Guilty

There are too many darkspawn. One darkspawn is too many. This is about eight fuckloads too many and they’ve only been underground a day.

And of course, the lyrium. Twisted, evil stuff. Even the blue stuff feels wrong now. Untrustworthy, as if it ever was safe. He’s resistant, sure, but the mages and templars all carry vials. He can hear it.

He should have listened closer, down in that first Thaig.

He should have known what that Maker-cursed idol would do. He’s a writer! He should have seen the plot turning around that point.

He should have known.

He did.


	14. Fierce: Dorian And Bull, Fighting, Admiring, And worrying

Dorian strangles the anxiety that wells up seeing Bull alone in the fray, utterly surrounded. He did this well and happily long before Dorian came along to worry about him.

He doesn’t need Dorian’s concern, likely doesn’t even want it.

There’s blood on Bull’s face, on his blade, arterial spray spattered across his chest like vitaar. His own arm is wounded, a small price for ten bodies on the ground. He’s in his element.

And yet Dorian worries. Worries, and says nothing.

Later, Dorian calls him brave, and strong, and beautiful. He doesn’t say he worried. He thinks Bull knows.


	15. Mysterious: Harding And Leliana, Lurking

The flowers from Lady Josephine were nice. Can Lace call her that? Is it too familiar?

Anyway, the flowers were nice, just like Lady Josephine is nice, but now Lace has a shadow. A swirl of purple, just out of the corner of her eye. Sometimes.

Other times, a flash of red in the tavern, and only Flissa, sweet and smiling and brown-haired, when she looks.

But Sister Nightingale is not, this time, very subtle. She’s probably trying to be threatening. And it is working. But Lace has six younger siblings.

Sister Nightingale will have to loom better than that.


	16. Fat: Dorian, Thinking Back

“Just gristle and fat in a red wine marinade,” he’d said once, lifetimes ago. How young he’d been, not even thirty, and sure he knew what was best– for himself, for his country, for the world.

He still does, of course.

His gray hairs are a statement of power: look how long he’s lived. His robes are lined with silk because he needn’t sweat to put children in their place.

And he buys better wine than he could ever afford while he was with the Inquisition, and he pays people to buy meat for him, and he misses his friends.


	17. Graceful: Josephine, Watching Cassandra

It’s not like watching a dance. It’s better.

Cassandra moves through motions Josephine can only imagine– can only wonder at– with the ease of long practice. Her movements flow one into the next like water, and since she’s only wearing a sleeveless jerkin and trousers, there is nothing to hide the stretch and pull of her muscles as she steps forward into a lunge, sword extended.

There are things Josephine should be doing. There are meetings to arrange and provisions to see to.

But the sun glints on the metal of Cassandra’s blade, and gilds her dark hair. Josephine watches.


	18. Filthy: Dagna And Sera, At The Forge

The forge belches reddish-black smoke, and Dagna steps back to let the air clear.

“Don’t burn your hands!” Sera shouts, for the fifth time. “I like them.”

She’s hovering, and if it were anyone else, it would make Dagna anxious. Too many variables, too many hands that might reach in and poke something.

“Calipers,” Dagna says.

Sera mutters and hands them over. “Wear gloves, you daft git.”

“Quarter-inch wrench?”

“Ugh, here. Be more careful.” Sera licks her thumb and rubs it on Dagna’s cheek. “You got some stuff on your face.”

“I’ll wash it off later.”

Sera grins. “I’ll help.”


	19. Cloud: Dorian, Bull, And Dorian's Plans

He had it all planned: first, he woke Bull up early, because the best days started early, energetically, and in bed.

After breakfast, he retreated to his library to compose himself and practice his speech, and let Krem distract Bull for a few hours. Krem was in on it– and approved– thank the Maker.

And then, he envisioned, they’d take the little rowboat out on the little lake, and he’d comment how well they rowed together, and suggest, offhandedly, calmly, that they might do so forever, and they’d kiss under the summer sunshine and then…

And then the rain started.


	20. Deep: Sera, In The Woods

The forest is dark. The trees are tall, and the needles they drop cover the ground in a dull brown carpet, strangling anything that might try to grow there. They’ve made a good home for themselves, these trees, where nothing can threaten their sameness.

Dorian keeps his sparky magic dim while they walk through these trees, and Inky complains about needles in his Elvhan feet, but Sera’s not too proud for shoes. She runs her hand across the dark, pitted bark of these trees. They’d be bad bows, maybe bad arrows too, but there’s something about them.

She likes them.


	21. Furious: Josephine, Riding To Val Royeaux

Josephine is accustomed to carriages. Her dear Inquisitor Lavellan is accustomed to moving much faster.

So even though Josephine has a horse saddled as quickly as possible and rides out the gate with the lightest guard Leliana allows, she is still hours behind, and losing ground each minute.

She should have nipped these silly, irresponsible feelings in the bud and saved them both a lot of grief.

One dalliance, two people’s feelings, don’t factor in the scale they’re working at. She’s never let these things get in the way before. She shouldn’t start now.

But what if she gets hurt?


	22. Trail: Dorian, And The String On His Finger

It had stretched west first, and slightly north, like a slightly misaligned compass.

No one had ever tied it to his finger, but it was always there, pale and thin. It swung south a week after his twenty-fifth nameday.

Perhaps he followed it on purpose.

He stood in the Fereldan Chantry, a rift at his feet, and rubbed the thread between his thumb and forefinger. It was glowing, a red unlike any other he’d ever seen.

There were demons, and then the door opened, and the light was a gleaming rope tying him to the tallest Qunari he’d ever seen.


	23. Juicy: The Imperial Court, Gossiping

The Imperial Court is, as always, abuzz. The Inquisition is among them, and Inquisition gossip is prime entertainment.

Where did Madame de Fer acquire that beautiful samite cloth? (Soggy highwaymen in a Fereldan backwater.)

Are the rumors about the Inquisitor and the Ambassador true? (Yes, except for the one about the feathers.)

Ten dragons? (Yes. One should ask the Iron Bull for details, if one is willing to weather commentary from the Tevinters.) (Yes, there are two Tevinters.)

Where did Lady Nightingale get her spectacular shoes? (We try not to ask.)

Does Varric Tethras sign copies of his books? (Gladly.)


	24. Blind: The Iron Bull And His Chargers, Ready To Fight

His Chargers are ready. These Venatori aren’t. If they thought Josie would be easy to capture, they have no fucking clue what the Inquisition’s about.

Krem’s is hand resting casually on the maul slung across his shoulders. It’s a good look for him. Badass. Intimidating.

Dalish cleaning her fingernails with an arrow. She picked that up from Sera. The arrow, not the habit.

Skinner and Grim are flanking their opponents, counting heads and weak spots.

Rocky and Stitches haven’t left Lady Josephine’s side.

Dorian is on his left side. He can’t see him, but Bull knows he’s there.

They’re ready.


	25. Ship: Josephine, Absolutely Not Pining

It fits in her hands. Josephine keeps picking it back up, turning the little ship this way and that, watching the bronze catch the light. The wooden base is polished, and shines a rich, deep red. It is beautiful.

It’s heavy, the weight in her hands is thrilling– terrifying. So many hopes and fears and years of work wrapped up in this one small thing. It sits on her desk and gleams in the candlelight.

And it was a gift. A gift from a dear, dear friend, who flirts as easily as she breathes. Josephine should not read into this.


	26. Squeak: Sera, Dagna, And Squeak

They’re sitting on the roof– well, Sera’s sitting, and Dagna’s lying on her back with her head in Sera’s lap, Sera’s hands running softly through her hair– it’s sunny, and actually warm in Skyhold for once. This is a good place to be.

There’s no cloud in the sky except Sister Nightingale’s ravens, no thoughts in Dagna’s mind except Sera’s smile, and no weight on her heart aside from one extremely heavy ball of fur and whiskers.

Cats are curious things, Dagna’s found. Suspicious, curious, slow to trust. But earn that trust, and nurture it… well, there’s no truer love.


	27. Climb: Josephine, Considering Skyhold

Skyhold is not where Josephine would have chosen to plant the Inquisition. Those displaced by dragons rarely have a choice, but it’s an odd place for a fortress, really. There’s barely any supportive infrastructure, no settlements for miles, and the only access is through untracked mountain passes.

It seems impossible that this was ever a stronghold of any importance, without even the barest implication of roads to lead here. Perhaps the ancient elves had some sort of technology or magic that’s been lost to time.

Perhaps they had an easier time climbing sheer rock faces. Perhaps they had better ladders.


	28. Fall: Dorian, Bull, And Mysterious Gifts

Flowers. Anonymous notes. Perfumes, scarves, more flowers. A plate of Orlesian cheeses delivered to his room.

There’s a dark, creeping suspicion in Dorian’s mind that this is all a terrible joke.

But the scarves are warm, and the wool doesn’t scratch overmuch. The scents are acceptable. The cheeses are accompanied by tolerable wine. The notes are… heartfelt.

It has to be a joke, because the alternative is that someone is wooing him. Someone who has apparently not noticed his existing attachment. His tall, gray, public attachment.

Bull, meanwhile, is popular with Skyhold’s florists. And merchants. Everyone likes a big spender.


	29. United: Dorian And Krem, Agruing With Bull

The Iron Bull is stalwart in the face of Tevinter fury. He drinks, unheeding of Dorian’s muttering or Krem’s raised eyebrow.

“You did not piss in the barrels at the Imperial winery in Perivantium, Chief. Their security is infamous.”

“Like eight swordsmen and a mage were gonna stop me.”

“I probably drank that, you heathen!”

“It’s just wine.”

Krem’s glower deepens. “Just wine?”

“That winery is a national treasure,” Dorian interjects.

“I know. There was a plaque.”

“A plaque, he says.”

“You’re mad too, Krem-puff? Thought you didn’t care about Altus shit.”

“I just don’t think you did it, asshole.”


	30. Found: Baron Plucky, And Shiny Things

Baron Plucky, like any corvid, enjoys the finer things in life. He enjoys locating and collecting the finer things, for his own personal use.

His taller sister is kind to him, lets him perch on her nest, share her food. She shares her coins as well, tossing them in the air for him to catch like small golden rats. A fine game.

He covets the band of gold that sits on the Talker’s shoulders. She flits as lightly as any human can, glittering collar always taunting him. He’d decorate his roost with it. He only needs to bide his time.


	31. Mask: Dorian And The Iron Bull, Dancing

“May I have this dance, Messere?” A masked man bows with practiced grace, one hand extended.

“But of course.”

They take their places and wait for the music to begin. “To tell the truth, I was hoping you’d ask.”

“Got your attention, did I?”

“You’ve had it since the moment you walked in.”

They turn without speaking, faces hidden.

“I’ve always found masquerades exhilarating.” Fingers brush soft velvet. “The thrill of the unknown– who could you be, Messere?”

“Who knows? I’m the most anonymous eight-foot Tal Vashoth this side of the Kokari Wilds.”

The masks do not hide their smiles.


End file.
